The Last Glance
by Aryenn
Summary: [AUTHORIZED TRANSLATION]Sometimes the past returns, opening old wounds with unusual force, not giving an opportunity to mend our errors.


**Warnings: Written before book 7. **

DISCLAIMER: The characters don't belong to me or the original fanfic author. They are property of J.K. Rowling and various is my first spanish to english translation. You can find the original fic "La Ultima Mirada" written Livia57adC. Warnings: The story was written before book 7 was published.

**THE LAST GLANCE**

He arrived to work around mid-morning. A polite but cold good morning to his secretary and he closed the door to his office. He placed his portfolio in a chair and loosened his tie a little before sitting behind the immense mahogany table. With annoyance he contemplated the pile of parchments that in orderly fashion were waiting to be reviewed and signed before he got down to it. Only a few minutes had gone by when there was a soft knock in his door and without waiting for an answer, Beth, his secretary, walked into the elegant office with a glass in her hand.

–Potion for your headache – she explained with a brief, understanding smile.

He took the glass and thanked her for her gesture with just a curt nod. Sometimes he sensed that the woman knew him much better than his own wife. In some ways, that wouldn't be strange. He spent more time in his office than he did in his mansion. With his secretary, he spoke every day. With Olivia, if she had not gone to bed by the time he was around, he managed to cross a couple of phrases. Little else.

He had resisted against marring for years. Needing much time to redeem his soul of pain and remorse. Of attachments he had tried to root out of his heart. That thing which, unfortunately, had turned out to be a compendium of muscle and arteries and not made of granite, as he had been determined to believe.

It had been his mother whom finally had convinced him that Olivia Rookwood would be a most ideal wife. Under Narcissa's point of view, the young woman possessed all the conditions needed to become the future Mrs. Malfoy: fortune, beauty, elegance, education. Maybe at the moment he would have liked to add in intelligence among all those virtues. But, for the role she had to play by his side, she was adequate enough. What he wanted now, after seven years of marriage, was for her to give him an heir: the main, if not the only reason, of his agreement to the marriage.

His late wedding had been admired by many and it had opened him many doors that until that moment, and because of his family's past, he had been too uncomfortable to cross. Not that his life with Olivia for the past seven years had been a bed of roses. No marriage ever was. But both of them had received the education to know how to bear a relationship that, in public, was more than perfect. Even envied.

Draco had been quick in understanding that despite her willingness, her lovely face and the beautiful body that followed it, he would never feel for his wife the intense desire other bodies were able to provoke. Nor the passion that he had once known and that he had desperately tried to find again in all his lovers throughout the years. To no avail. However, that passion was at the same time a part of his life he preferred to forget. It had happened a long time ago and it had to remain buried in his own particular garden of relegated feelings.

He let out a brief sigh and drove his thoughts back to the parchments he had begun reading. He had some important decisions to make before the day was over. It was unwise to delay them because he didn't know if he would be late to the office the next day. The medical pilgrimage he and Olivia had begun months before with the objective of a pregnancy was driving him over the edge of sanity. Never before had a Malfoy had any problems to conceive an heir. Only one heir, which was the magical restriction to which the family was subjected. Something to do with a spell/curse that had been cast centuries ago on one of his, apparently, extremely promiscuous ancestors. Ever since that moment, the Malfoys had been able to have only one son, always a son, regardless of the magical family with whom they married. The tests that had been done on Olivia to date showed nothing that made her unfit for conception. And after weeks of bearing veiled insinuations from his father in law, Draco had reluctantly accepted to put himself through a consultation with a prestigious mediwizard.

It was almost lunch time when, due to the soft knocking on his door, Draco recognized it was Beth who was making her way into his office and he didn't bother to look up. At the moment he was too absorbed in the economic study for the acquisition of a new company he pretended to add to his broad holding. If the matter was important, she would make sure to let him know.

– Mr. Malfoy, you have a visitor – Beth informed him, standing in front of his desk.

Draco looked up in annoyance.

– It was not in my agenda this morning.

– I know.– she confirmed – He just walked in.

– Arrange an appointment for another day, Beth. – he turned back to his parchment – I can't receive anyone today.

– I know that as well, Mr. Malfoy. – Beth confirmed – But he insists on not leaving until he's had a word with you.

This time, his gray eyes glanced up at the woman in an evident bad mood.

– I pay you to resolve these things, Beth. – he coldly reminded her – Since when are you unable to turn away untimely visitors?

But she remained firm. She was used to her boss' cold stare. After five years of working with him, fully aware of the pile of secretaries that preceded her, Beth was sure that she still had a job because she was the only one to not shake like a leaf every time Mr. Malfoy used that tone of voice with which, instead of asking about his agenda, he seemed to be condemning her to life imprisonment in Azkaban.

– He has only given me his last name. – she insisted – Potter.

The parchment fell from his fingers without him even noticing. Draco looked at his secretary with a bewildered expression she could not recall ever seeing on his face.

– Potter? – he repeated.

– That's what he said. – she confirmed.

– What does he look like? – Draco asked using a tone of voice far too deep from his usual.

– I don't know, normal, I suppose. – She described, sounding surprised – Tall, dark-haired... bit of a snob, if I may say so, because he has not taken his sunglasses off since he arrived.

Draco reclined against his chair and started a balancing motion, his hands still on his desk started a tapping against the wood with two of his fingers. It was something Beth had seen him repeat in many occasions when he needed to make important decisions. He played balance with his chair and tapped on his desk, his eyes a darkened gray, most of the times lost in the contemplation of the snitch that rested atop a pedestal on the right side of his desk and that she had always suspected was made of pure gold. Afterward, some unlucky soul would loose share holdings or an entire company.

– Let him in. – he said at last.

Beth left the office, but not without giving a brief and discreet glance over to the man that was now lost in contemplation of the window. She could not guess the jumble of emotions that shook her boss' exaggeratedly still body. Because Beth would have been barely 5 years old when everything happened. And most people no longer remembered a hero that had been dead for almost twenty years. Regrettably, even the saviors of the wizarding word end up falling into oblivion.

Draco was convinced that it couldn't be him. The Potter that managed to leave him out of breath with the sole mention of his name was history. There must be hundreds of men in England with that name. And the one he had known had already passed on to a better life. However, he felt curious to see who was this man that dared to come into his office, without previous appointment, demanding to be received. And, unfortunately for the stranger, he had a last name that brought only bad memories to Draco. That, to begin with, would not work well on his favor.

He heard the door open and he persisted for a few seconds on the futile reading of the parchment in front of him; then, the clicking of Beth's heels on the wood flooring and the muffled sounds of someone following her.

– A Mr. Potter, Mr. Malfoy.

Draco finally looked up. His steel gray eyes froze in his retina the image that, during a few seconds, seem to be brought back by his own memory. Much more taller than he remembered him, the man of unmistakably and unruly black hair advanced towards him, stopping only when he was in front of his desk.

– Hello, Malfoy.

In that instant Draco gave thanks for the safety that his immense working table gave him and also the possibility to lean into it to keep up a firm and indifferent posture as he faced the living memory of his past.

– Potter... – was all he managed to said.

The dark haired man pointed towards one of the single sofas in front of the desk and Draco, incapable of uttering a single word, gave mute permission with a hand gesture.

– Tea? – asked Beth, obliging.

– Not for me, thank you. – answered the new arrival.

Draco just shook his head and Beth clicked her way out of the office.

– For someone who has been dead for twenty years, you look remarkably good. – and when he spoke his voice was as steady as if they had seen each other the day before.

The other man smiled and settled comfortably in his seat.

– You should already know that everything said about Harry Potter only in few occasions turns out to be true.

Draco was sure that, if the man stopped smiling in the way he was doing, his heart would find the beat it had lost when he had walked in the room. He did not want to see that smile that had left him sleepless on too many nights since he could remember. Along with the guilt that those memories brought into him afterward. No matter how hard he tried to banish that gilt by trying to convince himself that he had the right decision. When Harry had become Potter once again.

– So, what brings you here? – he asked, crossing his hands on top of his desk in a gesture he pretended to be relaxed.

– Among other things, to know about you. – replied Potter, maintaining the same smile.

Draco raised his eyebrows, something very familiar for him

– After twenty years? – he asked again, this time slithering in a fine irony in his tone to signal his rapid emotional recovery.

– I would have come before, but I've been busy. – was the other man's ironic excuse.

Draco shot him a penetrating glance, trying to guess the motive that could have brought Potter's sudden appearance after such a long time.

– I also am a busy man. – he said to him – So if you try and be more specific about the reason of your visit, maybe we can resolve what's brought you here.

– As pragmatic as always! – was the mocking reply.

Draco tried to suppress his impatience. It was making him nervous to not be able to see his eyes, hidden behind those sunglasses.

– Well? – He insisted, opening his hands in an inviting gesture for him to talk.

Potter gave a small snort, as if talking so soon about the specifics of his visit vexed him. And he resumed everything in three words.

– To kill you.

Draco remained silent for a couple of seconds, making sure he had heard correctly. Finally, he confronted the eyes that hid behind the lenses and asked:

– And why is that?

– Resentment, I suppose. – was the answer, and the owner of the voice gave a little shrug.

Draco tilted his head a bit, half-closing his eyes, concentrating in the man sitting in front of him. Jeans, and a short sleeved polo shirt. Relaxed posture, a little unkempt even. His physical appearance was the same, slim and sinewy, muscles clearly marked in his arms in spite of the slimness. He noticed he could remember every muscle of that body, that seemed to be kept en their exact same places. His face showed little signs of aging. Though those sunglasses could be hiding plenty of those.

– And how do you pretend to go about that? – he said, showing a polite interest.

– Oh, don't worry about it. – reassured Potter, waving his hand carelessly – I've already resolved everything. – he smiled then – I too can be pragmatic at times.

Draco settle in his chair, and started an unconscious balancing motion, without taking his eyes off Potter.

– That much resentment?

Potter let his elbows rest on the desk and Draco imagined his piercing green eyes looking straight at him.

– Seven months, Malfoy.- and this time the resentment was also in the voice – Seven months at San Mungos waiting to see you appear at any moment.

– You were isolated, no visits were allowed.

Potter shook his head.

– Called your name at all times, at least every time consciousness took over; no one would have stopped you. – and he added with an accusing tone –Even Ron and Hermione swallowed their pride and went looking for you to Malfoy Manor, but you refused to receive them.

Draco pressed his lips until they became a slim, pink line. Wesley's furious, ear piercing screams insulting him from his mansion's foyer was not something Draco could easily forget. They had come to tell him that Harry was calling for him. That he needed to talk to him. Draco had preferred to ignore them, and not torment himself again with feelings that he insisted had already been forgotten. He didn't want to see him die. He wanted to save the memory of the young man with whom he had fought and whom he had insulted endlessly, getting the exact same in return. And after that the body that had moaned under his with that unique passion he had only felt then.

In that moment all those years ago he could not comprehend, along with many witches and wizards of the wizarding world, why the mediwizards were determined to prolong a life that they themselves had recognized as lost; why it took them seven months to let him die in peace. Now he wondered why they had lied.

And since apparently damn Potter only did what was expected of him in counted occasions and dying had not been one of them, there he was again, willing to fuck his existence like he had always done since they had known each other.

– I remember telling you that there was no place in my life for you, Potter. That it was better to break it off.

– You promised to reconsider when everything was over, if I managed to survive. – he bitterly rubbed in every word.

– And your little Gryffindor brain didn't catch a hint of what I reconsidered? – mocked Draco in defense.

He twisted his slightly sweaty hands together, shaken by sudden chills.

– And why don't you take off those damn sunglasses? – he almost shouted, surprised at his own lack of self control.

For all the gods! He had to restrain himself. A bitter taste of bile flooded his mouth, making him swallow with a quick disgusted grimace. He looked at Potter who was again settled against his seat, marking their distance.

– I had a little surgery. – he explained after a while – Got rid of my nearsightedness. The muggle way. – he added with a small mischievous smile – I have to wear them for two or three days.

Right, Potter and his eternal round glasses. Take them away and he could not walk three steps without running into something.

– However you now seem to have no problem with them, I think. With the muggles, I mean. – he clarified – At least you don't mind making business with them.

Draco took the jug of water placed on the a side table and poured some into a glass. His mouth was dry and he drank everything in the glass.

– Have you been watching me? – he asked.

– I've investigated a little. – admitted Potter – I like to be meticulous.

Draco let out a short laugh, almost choking on a second glass of water.

– You? Meticulous?

– How you offend me, Malfoy. – replied the dark haired man with a grimace. Then, he asked:

– Are you alright?

Draco's face was sweaty, his lips partially opened, gasping a little.

– You worry about someone you're going to kill? – he said with irony, trying to recover some control con his breathing.

– Allow me to at least be polite. – replied Potter, again with that smile that Draco did not want to see.

Both remained silent, as if they found it difficult to continue their conversation or they had nothing else to say to each other. Draco would have liked to see Potter's eyes. To read in them the whirl of emotions the Gryffindor had never been able to conceal. Just like in that night, when Draco had seen Potter's soul breaking into pieces behind the jade green of his eyes. Draco had remained unmoved, leaving Potter alone so he could pick up without further humiliation the pieces of the heart he had destroyed.

A deep nausea lifted from his stomach to his throat, followed by a distressing out of breath sensation. When he opened his eyes again, Potter had gone around the table and was by his side. His gray eyes traveled from the impervious face of his ex lover to the glass that had contained the headache potion still sitting right besides his parchments.

– How have you done it? – he asked, gasping.

– An invisibility cloak helps a lot. – replied Potter – It allows you to move without being seen. – and he added –But don't worry, I have already removed it from the medicine cabinet so that no one else can take it.

Draco closed his eyes for a few seconds, trying to push down a second nausea.

– You were never good with potions. – he finally managed to say, with bitter sarcasm.

Potter sat on the table, beside him and gave my a slight smile.

– I'm very good at potions. – he rectified – Everyone will think its been a heart attack. You know, stress.

Draco gasped again. Trying to take air to his lungs had become more difficult by the second. Potter turned his chair a bit and fell to his knees in front of him, between his legs.

– Loved you so much. – he said – you have no idea how much. And you never deserved it, you bastard.

Draco extended his shaking hand and tangled his fingers in the unruly hair. Then his hand lowered to his cheek, leaving behind his caress a wet trail of sweat. He wanted to see his eyes. The eyes that had tortured him so many sleepless nights while he hadn't allowed himself to feel guilty for abandoning them. He slowly took off the glasses from his face, longing to see one last time that intensely green shade that for a few months made him forget he was a Malfoy and that his life could not go side by side with the Boy Who Lived.

– Seven months of agony being forced to live. Because of you. – Potter spoke again with a hoarse voice, facing the ground, not granting him a glance – sedated to relieve the pain; but uttering your name at every lucid moment. Forced to stay alive, when death would have been a sweet and thankful rest. But just couldn't... – his voice broke at that point and his hand closed with fury on Draco's thighs – had to reach full term...

A suffocated sob escaped from the lips of the man kneeling in front of him. Draco placed a hand on the head that had fallen dejected on his lap to hide the tears and he clumsily caresses it, all energy almost gone. In his chest an acute and cutting pain was expanding and he knew that the next beat would be the last his heart would give.

– Harry... – he begged –... please, look at me...

And Harry raised his eyes so that Draco could see the beautiful gray in his pupils before closing his own. The storming gray that was unleashed in those eyes, same as the one being unleashed in the eyes of the dying man. And he knew in that last instant, Draco had understood too.

– He forgave you. – he murmured, taking the now still hand in his own – because he loved you until his last breath. But I'm not him. I hate you, father.


End file.
